


faith, (should i take a leap)

by ahatfullofoctarine (orphan_account)



Series: January Fluffabet Drabble Challenge [19]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Drabble, Family Feels, Gen, Light Angst, M/M, Summer Vacation, are horndogs, i didn't put stock into editing this, since it's a gen fic and 90 per cent of this fandom, word vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-19 01:25:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17592074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ahatfullofoctarine
Summary: Team Voltron touches down in Samoa.Coran-centric character study.





	faith, (should i take a leap)

**Author's Note:**

> for the prompt: "Zeal" for the Jan A-Z challenge
> 
> yes the title is a Kingdom Hearts reference, i got my copy yesterday and seeing destiny islands had me homesick for some reason lol

Being an exemplary anthropologist has always been an unspoken part of the Altean Royal Advisor job description, since a deep understanding in customs and cultural nuances always helps navigate the tricky waters of cultural faux pas at the negotiating table.  

With the Galran Empire committing the most _exponentially unforgivable_ cultural faux pas of waging intergalactic war, survival takes precedence over pleasantry.  It’s bitter work keeping the castle running, keeping the paladins from killing each other (mostly Keith and Lance, but Pidge and Hunk have their moments occasionally), but Coran supposes he’s grateful if it keeps him from ruminating on Days that Might Still Have Been (Had Not Zarkon Taken it Upon Himself to Be A Colossal Quiznak). Being the oldest member of Team Voltron, he kind of doesn't have a choice anyway.

 

. . . 

 

Sometimes, the exhaustion of a battle hard fought and won is enough to help Coran sleep at night.  Other times, the moments of reprieve in between battles present themselves and it’s all he can do but stand helpless and at a loss.  Centuries-worth of deep history and cultural traditions studied; languages and folk songs never to be heard again by their native speakers, pulling him under with a vengeance. One isn’t so boastful of having a memory as long and clear as he does when it happens, and Coran, over the course of a few short days upon waking from cryostasis slowly comes to accept that whether they are engaging the insurmountable forces of the Galra or not, he will be locked in constant struggle _either way_ , _every day_.  

Worst still is living with the innate guilt, that many of these cultures and peoples that have been wiped from the face of the galaxy were done so by the very person who’d once sat shoulder to shoulder with Alfor on the same side of the negotiating table.  A fellow paladin, of all people. 

 

 _The_ _Black Paladin_.  

 

You don’t need an eidetic memory to know there’s most certainly no negotiating table for Zarkon and Haggar--neé Honerva, only the simple evidence of your eyes.  Or, more accurately, more _shamefully_ : the little evidence _left_ of the worlds and _lives_ lost in the maelstrom. The thought alone is enough to conclude that _some_ people are beyond redemption.

 

_Deserving of death._

 

. . . 

 

When the castle touches down in Samoa, the innate desire to _learn_ wells up inside Coron as it is always wont to do when presented with the chance to absorb new knowledge, but he’s grown wary of it in the face of the uncertain guarantee that they will defeat the Galran Empire. Samoa is _tiny_ by Earth standards, neutral to the point of benign, barely a _blip_ on the international radar with a population of two hundred and fifty thousand at most. It has no military force, and its infrastructure and tech are _leagues_ behind in comparison to Lance’s _Cuba_ , and Shiro’s _Japan_.  By _Intergalactic War in the Known Universe_ standards--utterly defenseless. And when the enemy finally turns their eyes toward Earth--perhaps even the first to go.  

 

_Another culture to be learnt and lost._

 

Coran volunteers to ‘bravely’ stay behind to defend the castle from intruders, tacking on the excuse of needing to shine the teludav lenses when Allura points out the castle is in fact _cloaked_ and impenetrable to unrecognizable biorhythms. Allura leaves him to it, but not without the promise of _We’ll Talk About This Later_ vengeful and clear in her eyes.

If he wasn’t so worried about that impending conversation and all the vulnerabilities it entails, he’d tear up in pride. Queen Melenor had had much the same terrifying instinct, _Altea rest her_.

 

Fortunately, Allura is already swept up in running after Keith and Lance, the two brainless chupas--they’d taken it upon themselves to race down the ramp in their lion suits.  A race of Lance’s instigation, Coran harbours little doubt, though Keith could stand to be less easily goaded. He's starting to suspect Keith goes along with it out of nostalgia, though.  Shiro and Pidge follow suit; Shiro half-listening to Pidge read off a tablet everything she’s dug up about _Lalomanu--_ the beachside village they’re hiking down the plateau towards--half-immersed in the promising deep blue of the ocean stretching out toward the horizon from their vantage point.  Last to venture down the ramp is Hunk, who purposely has to be lingering _because it isn't in his nature to do so_ during awkward situations, and the realization is enough for Coran to conclude that he’s put his foot in a Samoan protocol of some sort-

 

“Here.”  

 

Hunk pushes a book into his hands--actually, two books: one labelled _Treasure Island_ , the other _Strange Case of Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_ \- both by the same author.  Coran’s relieved, morbidly, that Robert Louis Stevenson isn’t Samoan when he glimpses presumably Robert’s picture on the back cover; the brief mention of him being from _Scotland_ included in the blurb. Scotland. He's been to Scotland. Wonderful place. Cold, but wonderful nonetheless. Especially if you like whiskey.

 

And stories by long dead authors, apparently.

 

“In case you get bored.” Hunk shrugs.  “It’s got pirates and treasure and betrayal--all the good swashbuckle-y stuff.  Never really finished the other one, creeped me out. I have my communicator, so let me know if you want a hand with the teludavs.”

 

“Thank you Hunk.” Coran doesn't really answer the second part.  Hunk notices, of course, but just smiles, and yells out:

 

“Fa!” over his shoulder.

  


. . .

 

Coran attempts _Strange Case of Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_ but gives up in the middle.  Its duality themes ring a little too close to Zarkon and Honerva: of the people they once were; of the monster they’d become. _Treasure Island_ fares better as a result.  

 

. . .

 

Coran doesn’t realize it at the time, but that book is his first stepping point into learning more about Samoa.  At surface-level it’s an entertaining, digestible read, but if he knows Hunk and the yellow paladin's penchant for subtlety when one least expects it, then that's reason enough to go through the novel with the same critical eye he did with _Strange Case_.

 

Coran finds, _irritatingly_ , upon careful excavation that if _Strange Case_ mirrored Zarkon’s descent into evil, then _Treasure Island’s_ coming of age swashbuckler mirrors Coran’s descent into cynicism (Jim Hawkins via proxy).

 

“Now you listen here young man.” Coran states witheringly into the commlink when Hunk finally picks up (yes Coran knows how ‘old’ saying ‘young man’ makes him sound), “I’ll have you know that cynicism is a healthy thing to have in this day and age, _especially_ with the state of affairs in the galaxy as it is! The saying isn't _‘always look a yalmor in the mouth’_ for no good reason, and far be it from me to turn down a compliment, the fact that you would lump _me_ in with the likes of Jim Hawkins indicates very little to no--”

 

“Oh, hey Coran! No I don't and no I _didn't_.” Hunk answers, cutting off with a lengthy yawn that has Coran bringing up the ship’s internal clock to double check he hasn’t rung at an unreasonable hour.

 

He hasn’t. It’s just after sunset, the gang most likely rousing from an afternoon nap following a day of enjoying their downtime to the fullest. Earlier, Hunk had sent videos of the team soaking up the island’s perennial sun: Pidge snorkelling, Shiro and Allura teaming up against Keith and Lance in a game of chicken fight (and losing, surprisingly), Allura playing beach volleyball with the village kids--so Coran has an idea of how blissed out and bone-tired they are.  

 

And is, reluctantly, reminded that this is _how it should be_ , reminded how _young_ the members of team voltron are - even Allura, Altean longevity notwithstanding.

 

Coran understands Alfor’s sacrifice, noble and strategically forward-looking as it was, but  the thought still hits him unbidden, regardless:

 

_What if we fail? What if Haggar-_

 

“Don’t know why anyone would wanna look in a _yalmor’s_ mouth, that sounds uber gross.” Hunk says, derailing that train of thought.  “And you strike me more as a Robert. But super-sized. Travelling to different planets, making friends with the locals, investing in their politics. You’ve even got the moustache-thing down pat.”  

 

 _Robert himself?_  Coran can’t tell if that’s meant to be a compliment.  He double-checks on the Castle’s search engine and finds the moustache-emblance to RLS uncanny and _perhaps_ beyond reproach.  Perhaps even within compliment. But that's not all what Coran finds.

 

“Hunk...”

 

“Say, you hungry?  We’re having _koko samoa_ with bread. Kind of like hot chocolate. Oh man you gotta try some: the bread's fresh from the bakery and we’re all just pulling it apart and dipping it. It’s great, check it out.”

 

A live feed pops up in front of Coran, taken from inside the gang's thatched hut or   _fale o’o_ , all of them sitting around a plate laden with steaming hot loaves of bread. Beside the plate Pidge is presently pouring dark brown liquid--the _koko samoa_ , presumably-- from a large silver teapot into a cup, a strainer sitting on the cup mouth to catch the grinds. Allura smiles halfway through biting into a an entire bread loaf half when she comes into view and waves to Coran.   

 

“Come on, quit hogging the teapot,” Keith says. Pidge sticks her tongue at him.  

 

“Ha! Not my fault you guys are slowpokes.”

 

“Keith, _chill_ , there’s plenty to go round.” Hunk says. “We can always run back to my aunt’s to top up.”

 

“Yeah, but Pidge has gone through _three_ already.” Lance grumbles, off to the side.  “Digging the beard Coran! It’s very Cast Away.”

 

“Castaway?  What’s Castaway?”

 

“Ancient survival film.” Shiro explains, taking the comm from Hunk and nodding to Coran in greeting. Over his shoulder Coran can see Keith preparing to lunge at Pidge. “Everything copacetic?”  

 

“Shiro I think you should-” Coran starts, right as koko samoa splashes all down Shiro’s front. Shiro exhales, setting the comm down on the mat to peel off his shirt. Coran's impressed that he didn't flinch seeing as that looked scalding hot, but then Shiro's been through Zarkon's fighting pits. In the wake of it there's not a whole lot of room left to be fazed by anything anymore. Patience tempered by pain.

 

Or is it apathy.

 

_Stop it, Coran._

 

“Sorry Shiro!” Pidge is laughing as she crawls past, Keith on her tail like a shark scenting blood.

 

“ _Pidge_ you’re spilling it! And Keith, oh my god how old _are_ you?” Hunk facepalms.

 

“Old enough to know I want my share. Get back here!” Keith snarls.

 

“My skirt! _Keith_!”

 

“Sorry Lu! I just need to--”

 

Pidge shrieks.

 

“Let go of me creep!”

 

“Oh man my aunt's gonna kill me.” Hunk groans.

 

“ _Ahem_.” Coran states, eyeing Shiro critically.  “Shouldn’t you be pitching in?”

 

Shiro just gives him a ‘look’ and shrugs, smiling a little. “I'm off the clock,” he says.

 

“Hunk! Take the pot!” Keith orders through gritted teeth.

 

“Uhh she looks kinda _cujo_ \--”

 

“Hunk. Pot. _Now_.”

 

There’s a scuffle and the comm goes rolling, the image freezing on Keith lunging for Pidge in the small confined space.  Somehow the audio continues, unaffected.

 

“Ow!” Pidge says. “Watch out for the--”

 

“I got it!” Lance cackles.  “Now if we could _all_ take a deep breath and ex--”

 

“Can you guys _please_ \--oh for goodness sake it’s _just koko_.” Allura sighs as the rustling intensifies.

 

“Says the one who’s had four cups already.” Shiro points out.

 

“Shiro, I pulled your butt out of the Black Lion and I can put it right b-”

 

“Allura?” says Coran worriedly, tapping the monitor on his end, “Allura what’s going--”

 

“Eat this Keith!” Pidge hollers.

 

The feed cuts off, the Castle swallowed up in silence, Allura’s mice blinking up at him expectantly.

 

 _Meaningfully_.

 

“Quiznak.” Coran mutters, head thunking heavily against the control panel.  

 

He galvanises into action two seconds later: inputs a few choice keystrokes to initiate the Castle’s Babysitter Protocol; makes a quick trip to his quarters to shove all the necessities into a duffel, and stomps down the ramp and through the undergrowth towards the five bio-rhythms blinking on the tiny screen in his hand.

 

“There’d better be some of that _koko_ left.” Coran mutters, spraying himself liberally with insect repellent.

 

There isn't, but the de-escalation Coran's presence makes upon arrival, and the bone-squishing hugs he receives as greeting suffice as adequate compensation - if at least, a clever ploy at distraction.

 

But that’s a rumination for another time.

**Author's Note:**

> the last line was just me running out of steam on this fic 
> 
> fun fact: there is a primary and secondary school in samoa named after Robert Louis Stevenson. surprisingly, we only ever mentioned his name when doing the school chant at inter-school sports competitions.  
> also we were complete shite at sports -- if not woefully mediocre -- and it was a recurring gag whenever sports results were conveyed to the school as a whole during assembly.  
> okay, maybe not _complete_ shite. we were kick-ass at netball, before/when I left.


End file.
